


What were our lives instead?

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Child Death, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Short One Shot, Tumblr Prompt, this is sadder than my other stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:36:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Based on a tumblr prompt requesting a jon x sansa fic written for the lyrics to "You" by Keaton Heston. A series of scenes starting after the “tent fight” in season 6 about Jon and Sansa, love and loss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first "inspired by lyrics" work, and it's more somber than my usual writing. I hope I did the song justice!
> 
> I'm on tumblr as myrish-lace-love if you want to say hi!

_If you must wait,_

_Wait for them here in my arms as I shake_

Sansa pulls Jon to her, and he comes without protest, stumbling out of his boots and into her arms, both of them desperate for closeness and comfort after their argument about the looming battle. Her name sounds like a prayer on his lips, his sweet mouth trails down her neck. Her body shakes with pleasure, she gives herself over to the light and heat they create together, blots Ramsey’s vicious grin from her mind as she drifts into sleep.

_If you must weep_

_Do it right here in my bed as I sleep_

The scars on her hands are light, fine, in the moonlight they could almost be beautiful. Ramsey’s carved her, marked her, and Jon can’t undo it, or bear the pain for her, no matter how much he aches to. So he lets the tears fall onto the furs, careful to let Sansa sleep, smoothing her hair, swearing to himself that Sansa’s words will be his deeds, and Lord Bolton will die tomorrow.

_If you must mourn, my love_

_Mourn with the moon and the stars up above_

_If you must mourn,_

_Don't do it alone_

The bark of the weirwood tree is smooth, and Jon rests his head against it as he looks up. The moon is a soft white crescent in the night sky, the stars pinpoints of lights scattered across the blackness. He’s done the honorable thing and turned her away gently when she came to his door after their victory, when the Stark banners covered Winterfell’s walls. His knees give out and he slides into the snow, recalling his whispered words. “It was a mistake, we can’t, it’s not right, Sansa,” even though he could smell her hair and see the dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose. He wanted to draw her to him and kiss her, move inside her till they were one person again, tell her he loved her, he can’t help himself, he’ll always love her. But he didn’t. She was vulnerable last time, so was he, but now he can be strong, he can protect her from himself. So he sits and tracks the moon’s path as the hours tick by, remembering how Sansa’s face became a composed mask as he talked, how her withdrawal was a sharper stab of pain than grief.

_If you must leave,_

_Leave as though fire burns under your feet_

She’d seen the flash of heat in his eyes as she pleaded with him, she knew she had, and she tries for a moment to hold onto the hope that only his Stark honor kept him from reaching for her, that only honor made him speak softly about how she’s wrong, they’re wrong, it’s done between them. Now, though, as she runs to her chambers, the stones rough under her feet, she understands Jon is just another man who refuses to believe she knows her own mind, and that betrayal cuts deepest.

_If you must speak,_

_Speak every word as though it were unique_

Jon hears himself from a distance, catches the words “Vale” and “Baelish” and “union”, as he stands before the assembled lords in Winterfell’s great hall and announces Sansa’s marriage to Littlefinger. The crowd’s bored, restless, ready to leave. This isn’t news, it’s practically expected, but Jon is their king, and so they listen respectfully. She’ll leave on the morrow, a bit hasty, but he spots a few elbows and jocular grins. The men understand why a future husband might be eager to ride off with Winterfell’s Rose, after all. He balls his gloved hands into fists and plants them on the table, and keeps his voice steady.

_If you must die, sweetheart_

_Die knowing your life was my life's best part_

_And if you must die,_

_Remember your life_

Brienne places the scroll into his hands. She traveled with Sansa to the Vale, as part of her personal guard. Sansa stood behind the choice, so Littlefinger smiled and yielded. Brienne, whom he trusts, has been weeping, he can see the red around her eyes. Sansa’s death is a personal failure for her. Brienne starts to talk, and stops, and starts again. He’s long ago told her to call him Jon, she’s bested him enough times in the training yard, given him bruises on his ribs that lasted for weeks, and he views her as a fellow soldier. “The babe died with Sansa in the birthing bed. A boy, an heir.” He has to sit when he seeks the jagged words on the page. Sansa’s script was elegant, complete with fillips and flourishes, and her anguish showed in the scattered scrawl she’d been able to manage. Jon I don’t have long Brienne will bring this to you when I’m gone he was ours Jon, our boy. I loved you, Jon, I know you didn’t feel the same, but I wish you could have seen him, once, see who we brought into the world together Brienne knows him well enough to show herself out when he starts to cry. She squeezes his shoulder before she leaves, a gesture he doesn’t expect, and doesn’t deserve.

_If you must fight,_

_Fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night_

The union with Daenerys is practical, powerful, one Sansa would have viewed with approval. Jon does his duty, he is kind to his wife, in their marriage bed and elsewhere. Her lavender gaze is cool as she sits on his council, though she pants and whines and calls his name at night. Jon respects her. Jon cannot love her, though he tries. He imagines red hair when he comes, blue eyes locked onto his. Never once, through the years, does he let Sansa’s name slip from his mouth.

_If you must work,_

_Work to leave some part of you on this earth_

After the armies of men fight the ice dragons and white walkers back across the long plains, Jon returns home with his wife. Neither of them expected to survive, and they’re at a loss for what to do, after months of riding Drogon and Rhaegal, barking orders and falling to sleep exhausted in tents that barely kept out the cold. They walk Winterfell’s grounds, arm in arm, silence between them now that there are no battles to plan. Jon pauses in front of the ruined glass gardens, thinking of a young highborn girl who wound roses in her hair, a sighed confession in his ear that if she was to see Winterfell again, she’d restore a piece of summer, make a declaration that warmth and beauty couldn’t’ be banished, not entirely, even here in the North. Daenerys looks at him, hiding impatience. “We’ll rebuild the gardens,” he says. “The expense-“ “It’s not a question, my Queen.” Daenerys raises an eyebrow at him, but he’s implacable. He plants the first rosebush himself when the garden is complete, patting the dirt and wishing Sansa was there to see the first blooms.

_If you must live, darling one,_

_Just live_

_Just live_

_Just live_

He remembers feeling whole and complete, when they were together, they shone brightly even though their time was brief. He knows in his marrow that if he’d been brave enough, if he’d told her the truth, they would have married, she’d be here with him now. But he lives still, grey hair flecking his temples, and she passed from the world without hearing the words engraved on his heart: I love you.


End file.
